If you’d told me a year ago that my cats would be obsessed with bath time, I would’ve laughed in your face. I mean, aren’t cats supposed to bolt the second they hear running water? That’s what every pet article says, anyway. But my cats—Taro and Biscuit—apparently never got the memo.
Biscuit, the ginger troublemaker, doesn’t just tolerate bath time—he owns it. The moment I turn on the water, he’s there, staring at me expectantly, ready for his “spa treatment.” But here’s the twist—he doesn’t want an actual bath. Nope. He wants to sit in his favorite plastic bowl, which I float in the warm water like a little boat. He lounges in it like, “Yes, human, this is the life I deserve.”
Meanwhile, Taro (the one with the perpetual judge-y face) sits on the edge of the tub, supervising the whole affair. He pretends to be above it all, but I’m convinced he’s secretly jealous. He watches Biscuit intently, like he’s trying to figure out the magic behind the floating bowl. Occasionally, he dips a paw in, as if testing the water temperature at a luxury spa.
It’s both hilarious and a bit ridiculous, but bath time has somehow become part of our daily routine. I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a bath without Biscuit demanding his own “spa” moment. The first time it happened, I thought I’d lost my mind. Who needs a bathtub full of bubbles when your cat acts like he owns the place?
But as bizarre as it seemed, Biscuit’s love for bath time became a comforting ritual. Every evening, without fail, I’d start the water, and there he was—ready to float. It became a peaceful moment for both of us after a long day: he got pampered, and I got to unwind.
Taro continued to watch from the sidelines. He’d scowl at Biscuit, but the second I got out of the tub and reached for a towel, he’d dart over to lick my fingers—probably hoping to share in some of the attention.
Then one evening, everything changed.
As I began running the bath, I realized Biscuit wasn’t nearby. He wasn’t pacing with excitement or meowing in anticipation. I called his name, expecting him to come bounding in, but nothing. I searched under the bed, in the kitchen, behind the curtains—still nothing.
Uneasy, I called my friend Olivia, a fellow animal lover who lives nearby. She came over quickly, and together we searched every corner of the apartment. It was so unlike Biscuit to miss bath time—he adored that bowl like royalty.
After about twenty minutes, we found him curled up in the corner of my bedroom, looking completely drained. His usual spark was gone. I rushed over and knelt beside him. “Biscuit, what’s wrong?” I whispered, gently stroking his fur.
Olivia joined me. “Something’s off. He doesn’t look right.”
I began to panic. Biscuit had always been wild but healthy. We debated rushing him to the vet, but Olivia suggested waiting until morning, thinking it might just be a mild stomach issue.
That night, Biscuit barely moved. He didn’t want to be near the water, didn’t ask for his usual float, and the next morning, he barely looked at me. My heart broke.
Over the next few days, I kept a close eye on him. His appetite was poor, and he barely moved. Even his favorite spots didn’t interest him. He’d just curl up and stare off with dull eyes.
Eventually, I took him to the vet. They ran a full workup, and when the doctor returned, her expression was serious. Biscuit had a kidney infection.
I was stunned. Cats are masters at hiding pain, and I had no idea how much he had been suffering. The vet explained it was common in older cats but treatable if caught early. I felt immense relief when she said he’d recover with the right medication and rest.
The road to recovery, however, was tougher than I’d expected. Biscuit spent the next several days recuperating. He wasn’t his usual self, but I could see small signs of progress. And surprisingly, what seemed to help most was our bath-time ritual. He wasn’t up for floating, but I let him sit next to the water. Every now and then, he’d dip a paw in—just like old times.
It was in one of those quiet moments that I realized something. We had always focused on the “routine”—Biscuit floating in his bowl—but what truly mattered was that he was included. Even just sitting beside the water brought him comfort, and that sense of normalcy helped him heal.
Then came the surprise twist.
A few weeks later, something unusual happened with Taro. The same cat who had always judged bath time from afar started getting bolder. He dipped his paw in more often. He got closer to the water, a little more each day.
At first, I thought it was just curiosity. Cats can be like that—especially when their sibling is getting all the attention. But then, the unexpected happened. Taro, the aloof and grumpy observer, jumped into the tub on his own. He sat there quietly for a few minutes, looking completely at ease.
That’s when it hit me. Bath time was never just about Biscuit. It had always been a way for the three of us to connect. And now, Taro was becoming a part of that bond.
But the most touching moment came days later. Biscuit, finally back to his old self, hopped into the tub with Taro. He nudged his brother gently, as if to say, “It’s okay. You can join me.” And Taro didn’t hesitate. He settled beside Biscuit, the two of them lounging in their makeshift spa.
I realized then that healing doesn’t always look the way we expect it to. We’re often so focused on getting “back to normal” that we miss how the healing process itself brings us closer. Biscuit’s illness—though frightening—reminded me how precious life is and allowed me to bond with Taro in a way I never had before.
The lesson? Even the hardest moments can lead to something beautiful. When life feels off track, sometimes all it takes is patience, care, and openness to new routines to help us find our way back—not just to ourselves, but to each other.
Let go of how things should be. Embrace how they can be. You might be surprised by how beautiful that can turn out.
If you’re facing something tough right now, or dealing with a twist you didn’t see coming—remember this: growth often finds us in the most unexpected ways. Let it unfold. Trust the process. You’re exactly where you need to be.
Share this with someone who needs a reminder that healing and connection are always possible—even in the most unexpected places.